


the storm at your door

by boltlightning



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, brilliant people in love, during and post revelations, ezio has been through A Lot, fixing embers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25825228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltlightning/pseuds/boltlightning
Summary: Ezio becomes a familiar stranger, and along with his ciphers he brings a storm to her door.(quiet moments with Sofia and Ezio, during and after Revelations)
Relationships: Ezio Auditore da Firenze/Sofia Sartor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	1. trading post

**Author's Note:**

> i played through all of revelations in a week and was left with a lot of dangling feelings about ezio and sofia, so i wrote a thing. then i watched embers and was left with a lot more dangling feelings, so i wrote a lot more things. and well...here we are.
> 
> while this is largely compliant with canon, i took some liberties with how the violence in the game is portrayed and discussed. i also scrunched the timeline to give ezio some more time with his family. i will not apologize for giving him the catharsis he deserves.
> 
> please enjoy <3

Ezio never stays for more than an hour.

As he takes a moment to investigate the ciphers she has laid out for him, Sofia takes a moment to investigate him. Ezio’s company is not unpleasant; it is good to hear a fluent Italian so far from Venice. There is so much about him that reminds her of a tomcat — he strides about her shop with a casual grace, his footsteps unsettlingly silent. His dark eyes light up when she speaks. And though he keeps his life and secrets close to his chest, his humor is quick and surprising and familiar all at once.

His visits are always unannounced, and they are always brief, but they are frequent. Like a cat, he comes and goes as he pleases, his presence quiet and unobtrusive. These days, the visits are less about business and more about social calls, and Sofia finds herself looking forward to them immensely.

Ezio prefers to stand, typically; Sofia gets the impression that he is not one to stay still for long. Today, he sits for once to investigate her ciphers, fingers idly tracing the scrawls of ink. His clothes are Persian-style, but she can see the frills of Italian sleeves poking out over his gloves. He wears a sword and dagger on his hip...but he is not a guard. He is not a soldier. He has only said he is a teacher of a sort.

_ Of a sort. _ So much of what she knows of Ezio is information  _ of a sort _ . Constantinople is a large, diverse city, and her shop is by the docks; it is not unusual for secretive travelers to visit her. But it was unusual for one of them to swing into her shop with mysterious ancient ciphers for her to solve.

Sofia gathers what she knows about this man. She knows he is from Florence — she can hear it in the soft peaks and rumbling lows of his Italian. He had mentioned having colleagues in the area, but she had never seen him accompanied. She believes, at least, that his name is Ezio...and she believes he is dangerous.

“I apologize for the musty air here,” Sofia says conversationally, as she reaches for her dusting cloth. “Much as I love my books, they are poor contributors to the smell.”

“It is no problem.” He is amiable as always. “I have been in much mustier places. This is nothing compared to the ruins of Roma, Sofia.”

“Roma? I thought you were  _ da Firenze, _ not  _ da Roma. _ ”

“I am,” Ezio responds firmly. He smiles to himself. “But I reside in Roma these days...when I am not researching Niccolò Polo’s mysteries, that is.”

The edge of his hood carefully conceals his eyes. She has noticed that if he turns his head just so, he breaks eye contact, tactfully done when he wishes to change the subject. So mysterious, this man, right down to the way he interacts with a friend.

She slinks around to her chair and picks up a newer tome from the shelf, turning her back to him. “I do not see how you read with that hood on,” she says, leafing idly through the pages. “Does it not strain your eyes?”

“My eyes are not so old.” He looks up just as she turns around, and she catches the barest gleam of his eyes under his hood. “But you have the right of it: most things are easier inspected in light than shadow. Some things, though…”

Sofia sets her book down and simply looks at him. Her silence is unusual, and Ezio trails off, waiting for her to speak. “I would prefer to speak to you face-to-face, Ezio Auditore da Firenze,” she says softly.

Ezio gives her that half-smirk she has come to love, quirking the scarred corner of his mouth. He looks back down. “As you wish, madonna.”

Using both hands, Ezio pulls his hood back slowly, as though it is a ritual.

What strikes Sofia immediately is that his hair is long, so long it is tucked into the collar of his shirt. It is not marbled with gray as his beard is, stark black but for a rebellious white streak at his left temple. Sofia finds that while he has aged, he has aged  _ well. _ His handsomeness is effortless and he wears it with grace.

Most notably, his eyes catch the golden afternoon light. Sofia had thought them a dark rich brown, but she finds that they are a light amber. The light illuminates the flecks of gray and green in the depths of his eyes, and his gaze is so intense she draws a slow breath to steady herself.

“Not as beautiful a face as some,” he says mildly, not breaking eye contact, “but it is the only one I have.”

“Is it truly?” she cannot help but ask, but smiles anyway. “I am glad to see you fully, Ezio. I figured we had known each other long enough to see...eye-to-eye, so to speak.”

“The pleasure is mine.” His attention flits back to the map, and his voice lowers some as he asks, “I had another good friend decrypt ciphers for me back in Firenze. Would you explain the logic to me? I fear my friend, while brilliant, could get wrapped up in all his details.”

The change in subject is purposeful, but Sofia does not take it personally. That Ezio guards his identity so closely is a symptom of his work, not necessarily his character...and Sofia has certainly worked with  _ unique _ personalities over the years. She repeats to herself that Ezio is not unpleasant, either in personality or looks, and he is intriguing. That is enough for her.

“Of course,” she says evenly, and pulls the parchment closer. “Ezio?”

“Yes?”

This time, Sofia is the one holding eye contact. “You do not have to wear your hood in my shop. Whatever your reasons, you are safe here. And it is better for your eyes.” She scrutinizes his face, then adds daintily, “And mine.”

Ezio laughs, and it is a rich sound that warms her to her toes.


	2. hagia sophia

The gardens outside Hagia Sophia are beautiful.

Ezio is struck by how little of Constantinople he has taken in during his months here. He had mostly seen the city from the rooftops, climbing their impossibly tall towers to keep better eyes on the Byzantine forces in the city. He had brawled with enough Borgia troops in the streets of Rome and did not wish to repeat the experience with this unfamiliar enemy, leagues away from everyone dear to his heart. 

Ezio has missed the feeling of walking anonymously through the streets, watching crowds that did not watch him. He has missed finding the small pockets of detail that make a city feel alive. And Sofia’s errand gives him an excuse to do just that.

He tailed a florist to these gardens, which did not seem much like gardens at all. These beds of flowers were planted, then left to grow on their own. In Italy, he had cared little for the small manicured gardens that wealthy families liked to curate in their courtyards. He had loved the windowsill herbs Claudia kept in Florence, his mother’s tendrils of vine flowers in the trellises of Monteriggioni. He had loved the fields of red wildflowers outside of Rome, where he could race his horse through a storm of petals with his hood down and the wind in his hair. With a shake of his head, Ezio pulls himself from the past and kneels in a patch of tulips.

White tulips, she had asked for. So specific. Vaguely, Ezio wonders at the significance of her request. Red roses, he knew, were symbols of romance...did tulips have any associated meaning? Ezio curses his younger self for not paying more attention to the habits of Italian aristocrats in his prior quests. While Sofia was hardly a veteran socialite, she was certainly refined in ways Ezio never experienced. He makes a note to listen in on the merchants in the Venetian quarter; maybe they would bring it up if he placed flowers near them.

_ Perhaps, _ he thinks stupidly, as his hidden knife slips from his wrist to trim the stems of the flowers,  _ I should just ask her.  _

Sofia was an ever boundless fount of knowledge. Any trivia he was curious about, she could explain far better than Ezio ever hoped. Her profession was centered around words; of course she was a master of them herself. And while her hunger for knowledge was evident, she never pressed Ezio for more details of himself than he was willing to give. She did not speak so easily of her past, either, but Ezio had a feeling she did not have quite as many ghosts haunting her as he.

_ I keep her in the dark for her own safety, _ he insists to himself.  _ The less she knows of me and my ghosts, the better. _ And yet the pressure of anxiety in his chest tells him it would be better if he stopped visiting her at all. If she could show him the trick to the Polos’ cipher…

No. To do so would be an insult to their friendship, and Ezio has so few friends here. It is selfish, but she had not sent him away for his mysteries yet. In his youth, he would not have hesitated to entangle himself with her, then stand in the way of any storm his life may bring to her door. But he is an old man yet, and dares to claim he has learned some patience.

Machiavelli would no doubt have found his trepidation amusing.  _ You have never given this much thought to any of your reckless plans in Roma, _ he could practically hear his friend say.  _ What gives you pause now? _

Suddenly, the ache in his chest grows fierce with longing. It has been over a year since he had heard Niccolò’s quiet council. He misses Bartolomeo’s raucous laughter, La Volpe’s half-hidden smiles, Leonardo's technical lectures. Claudia's letters are a balm to his soul, but it is not the same as holding her and his mother in his arms, his heart in their hands. Were he in Italy, he could protect them with his presence and not just his words. Would they embrace Sofia as they had him? Would he even get as far as introducing her to them, or would he continue to push them all away?

He pushes the thoughts away instead. He is getting ahead of himself. His mission here in the Ottoman Empire is important, but he wishes himself haste.  _ Soon, _ he assures himself,  _ soon I will be back with them. I will think on this later. Sofia and Masyaf await. _

Ezio feels half a fool as he trots to the front of Hagia Sophia. He is armed with more weapons than most men see in a lifetime, but in his fist is clenched five tulips, pure and white and still speckled with morning dew. He expects to find the bookkeeper on a bench inspecting a tome, as he frequently found her, but instead she waits on a fine Persian blanket. She had laid out food, and sits with a less-than-precious book in her lap.

A picnic. Surprises, particularly pleasant ones, were rare in Ezio’s life, but this friend away from home has surprised him. He approaches with his usual measured grace, and wills his heart to stop racing.


	3. bayside

The sea crashes against the cliffs beside them. Ahmet’s body is immediately hidden in the sea foam, his cries lost to the water. Sofia watches Ezio carefully as the would-be Sultan Selim approaches, offering introductions far too late.

Everything aches. Through a haze of confusion, Sofia slowly inventories the hurt done to her body. She feels bruises on her arms, where she had been seized by the Sultan’s men. Her neck burns where the rope had bit into it, and every breath and swallow is a struggle. Ezio had pulled her into a carriage to keep her safe, and she had ended up steering the horses in the chaos of their flight from the city. Her hands sting from where the reins had torn her palms, and her leg had nearly been crushed when an enemy cart had crashed into theirs.

She is a bookkeeper. She has stumbled into something dangerous. And the only man between her and a notorious warmonger is beaten and bleeding and breathing hard, his face shrouded in shadow. Blood runs from a gash on Ezio’s forehead, and he stands favoring his left side. He had been dragged along the ground by enemy horses for a brief turn before mounting one himself, and his body is still stiff with pain. His cat’s grace is gone, replaced with the seething fury of a wounded wolf.

Were this a story, she would have enjoyed the thrills and turns of it all. But this was  _ real _ , and she holds her breath as Selim rests a hand on Ezio's shoulder. “Leave this place,” he rumbles, with a sour smile, “and do not return.”

Ezio lurches with his good arm forward, sword drawn, but Sofia grabs his elbow. Every muscle in his body is taut. “Ezio, please,” she whispers. “You did the right thing. This is not your fight.”

As Selim walks away from them, his Janissaries in tow, Ezio releases a slow breath and sheaths his sword. He turns to face Sofia, and when she reaches for his hood to lower it, he does not object. “But where does one end and the next begin?” His voice is hoarse, rough with pain of many kinds. Sofia has no answers, but she reaches up a hand to his cheek. He closes his eyes at the touch.

“Sofia.” He takes her hand, kisses it, and rests it against his chest instead. She feels the words reverberate through his rib cage, sure and true. “This was not your fight, either. I am sorry for all the hurt you have endured.”

“Ezio–”

“I mean it. Truly,” he insists. His eyes are hard in the setting sun. “Your shop...we left it in a sorry state. Not to mention the—” For the first time since she had met him, he trips on his words. Sofia does not miss how his gaze flickers to the marks on her neck before he closes his eyes entirely and inhales sharply. “The rope. The kidnapping. You were brave today, braver than I should ever have asked of you. I will never be able to repay you for your courage.”

“I meant what I said earlier, Ezio.” She lets her words be sharp. “You are not responsible for the actions of other men.”

“But I am responsible for the actions that led them to you.”

Much of what Sofia had learned of Ezio, she had put together herself from the bits and pieces he had let slip. From this conversation alone, she learns a solemn truth about the man: that he must take on everything himself. That he strives to see his own business through by his own hand. And that he assumes the responsibility of others’ faults often, and seeks to correct wrongs however he can.

She takes his hands and holds them in hers, though her palms are cut and his knuckles are bruised and bloodied. “Ezio,” she says quietly, “you do not control the world. You did not make those men become greedy or vengeful. And right now, it does not matter how we got here. They are dead now, and we are not.”

“They are dead now,” he repeats carefully, “and we are not. You are right, as ever.”

There is so much to process. Ezio glances suddenly out to the bay, across which Constantinople awaits Selim’s army. He could not return, and while she knows little about his affairs in the city, she is certain there is no business left for him there anymore. “What will you do?” she prompts, when the glassy look in his eyes becomes worrisome. He squeezes her hands.

“What would you have me do, Sofia?” he asks. There is a trace of his old playfulness in his voice, and it is a relief to hear. “I am quite at your service for the time being.”

“Do you have coin?”

“Sì. I always do.”

“We should walk to the nearest village, clean these wounds, and sleep for as long as we need,” Sofia says, sounding far more confident than she feels. “Constantinopoli, my books, and your colleagues are not going anywhere. We can return another day, when everything is settled...but for now I would like to be somewhere else.”

Her leg aches, her head throbs, her neck stings. The prospect of walking a few miles on foot is dreary, and she knows Ezio is not exactly fit for traveling either. Still, he smiles at her words and bobs his head resignedly.

“That sounds nice,” he admits.

They head towards the path, limping in their respective ways. Ezio sees hoofprints in the sandy earth where one of their horses had fled, and he expresses hope that he could wrangle it to carry them to their destination. And when he hesitantly puts an arm around her shoulders, she confidently loops an arm around his waist.


	4. mediterranean

The shores of Italy await them over the next few horizons. Ezio feels his heart leap at the thought.

This ship, piloted by a captain loyal to the Assassins, is bound for Venice. Besides the crew and their supplies, the only other passengers are Assassins, and the only cargo is whatever the brotherhood needed to bring to Italy and the remnants of Sofia’s shop in Constantinople. Suleiman had petitioned his father to allow them back into the city after their visit to Masyaf, promising their time to be brief. And while Ezio bristled at being rushed about their business, Suleiman himself had accompanied Ezio and Sofia on their errands.

They had retrieved Sofia’s books (or at least what could be salvaged), ensured the welfare of both Suleiman and the local chapter of Assassins, and departed for Venice within a week.

Ezio thinks on the rest of their travels fondly. While he could never truly set his thoughts aside from Altaïr’s library, Sofia’s companionship could almost make him forget the quests both ahead of and behind him. Her wit is as sharp as it is vast, and his teasing and flirting never go unanswered. She is remarkably well-traveled; he was more than happy to follow her lead during their stay and recovery in Acre. 

Most of Ezio’s left side had been bruised badly in his chase after Ahmet. By the time they arrived in Acre, he was mottled every color a bruise could be. Sofia commented he looked like some sort of exotic fruit, and had laughed at his dour expression until he kissed her quiet. Even in pain, Sofia manages to lighten his heart.

They had stayed huddled together in an inn for a few days before making the voyage to Masyaf, growing closer as they traded stories from their respective lives.

This night on the ship, he sits at the prow and watches the horizon. The winds of early summer are warm on his skin and welcome through his hair. For a brief moment, he feels the way he felt when he returned from his confrontation with Rodrigo Borgia: like he has  _ time _ . Time to revel in the liberty he has created. Time to rest and relax and enjoy the fellowship of his loved ones. Time to build a home and family, not a headquarters and a crew.

Tonight, he had decided he would use his time to answer all of Sofia’s questions. His past was painful, and she knows the general story of it now — but tonight he would leave nothing off-limits. How much she wants to know is entirely up to her.

As if summoned by his musings, footsteps approach from behind. His eagle senses prickle even before she speaks. “Ezio? It’s late, mio caro.”

“It is, yet it seems I do my best thinking when it is late. How do your children fare?”

Sofia had just returned from below deck where her books are packed well against the moisture. Humidity is the enemy of paper, and a precious many of those books are ancient. She rolls her eyes and comes to stand at his side. “Your cutting words aside, they fare well. I fear for the copy of Aesop’s writing, but if the binding withers away in this sea, I will rebind it myself. I know a leather worker in Venice who…” She trails off, catching Ezio’s eye just as he hides a snort. “What is it?”

“I was teasing,” he says honestly, “but you truly do care for them as your children. You have found your calling, Sofia.”

“As you have told me before,” she points out, not unkindly. “When you find what you care about, it is not too hard to give your whole life to it.” Ezio still sees a glint of knowing in her eyes. “You would know something about that.”

_ More than most could ever fathom. _ Ezio does not voice his reply and simply bows his head in acquiescence.

They stand together watching the sea ripple before them. “What were you thinking about?” Sofia asks softly, tentatively breaking the silence. “Before my children and I so rudely interrupted.”

He chuckles, and bumps her shoulder with his. “I was thinking about you.”

“Me?”

“Is that so much of a surprise? You are more than just a brave bookkeeper who fell into my life, Sofia.”

“Oh?” Her eyes glitter mischievously in the starlight. “How much more?”

He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Even in the dim lighting, the auburn in her hair is striking. “You are a brave bookkeeper with more patience and passion than anyone I have ever known. You hold my heart, Sofia, and I must mind the temper of someone who holds such a fragile thing.”

Ezio places a dramatic hand over his chest, and though Sofia rolls her eyes again, she has not stopped grinning. “Oh, Ezio. What will I do with you and your silver tongue?”

“You could kiss me,” he suggests, and she obliges with a laugh. Ezio could have lived in that moment forever — Sofia’s grin against his lips, her hands against his chest and his arms around her, their future on the horizon and the anticipation of home in their hearts. 

As always, the past drags him back.

When they part, Ezio rests his forehead against hers as they both catch their breath. “Sofia,” he murmurs. “Tonight...I know you do not ask about my past unless I am already discussing it. You are patient with me. So tonight, I would have you ask questions to your heart’s content.”

“Ezio.” She pulls away, just enough to look him in the eye, and her hands unconsciously tighten around his arms. “Are you certain? I do not want such a pleasant evening to turn painful.”

His smile is thin. “I am certain, Sofia. Please, ask me a question before I change my mind. I have climbed to terrifying heights and fought in many battlefields, and I am still a coward when it comes to such...vulnerable things.”

“You are always brave to me.” She kisses him again, shortly but sweetly. 

They pass the night on the prow of the ship, speaking softly about hard things, and Ezio feels the pressure in his chest lessen with each story.


	5. rome

They crest one of the surrounding hills of the countryside, and Ezio puts out a hand to stop the horses. On the horizon lies the skyline of the ancient city he had called home for so long.  _ Rome. _ Day breaks behind the city, and the shadows its ruins cast are long and irregular. The walls of Rome await their arrival past a veil of morning mist.

Sofia slows her horse to a halt. She had never been to Rome before today, but her mind swims with the memory of all the books she had read of it. Biographies, myths, military conquests, almanacs and medical references — none compare to the stone structures that greet them, dotting the hills of their approach as if in welcome. But her history with this city is limited to what words she has read, and she looks to Ezio for his next move.

His hood is up against the unusual chill of the morning, but he catches her eye and gestures wordlessly for her to follow him. They leave the Roman road and trot into one of the surrounding fields.

“The city is that way, Ezio,” she remarks. Ezio glances over his shoulder.

“I want to show you something. Trust me.”

He stops her at the crest of a hill a short ride away, and Sofia gasps at the sight. Before them lay a field of wildflowers. They are still in bloom from the late spring and they are all a stark red against the green landscape, wild and disorderly and brilliantly bright.

Ezio puts his hood down and smiles crookedly. He wears his hair up today, tied with a red ribbon as he did in his youth, and Sofia can just catch the streak of gray in his long ponytail as he pulls it from the back of his shirt. He had trimmed his beard back as well, and the gray throughout is far less prominent at a shorter length.

“I used to come out here to think,” he tells her. His voice is wistful, distant. “I rode these hills well with my mare for months. But this field…”

“It’s wonderful,” she breathes. Sofia knows that the field must end somewhere, but the rolling hills make it look like it goes on forever. There is something entrancing about so much color gathered in one space, and the two find themselves falling silent.

Ezio lifts his face to the rising sun and closes his eyes, facing Rome in the distance. He had built a life here, she thinks, after spending so many years of his life hunting down targets in different major cities. She examines the man before her in this brief moment of reflection — the red ribbon in his dark hair, the roguish scar in his lip, the pale sun on his weary face — and thinks it is not so hard to imagine him as the impulsive, irresponsible, brash young man he said he once had been. She had come to know him as a flirt and a braggart, yes, but one who had learned to slow down and wait for opportunity rather than striking first. 

In Rome, he is considered a leader. Somewhere beyond those walls, in a home on Tiber Island, lies Ezio’s family; not just his sister, but his brothers-in-arms and this brotherhood he had cultivated. And Sofia feels genuine excitement for him to be reunited with them, if only to see his loved ones pull him from the somber moods he fell into so frequently. She is more thrilled than nervous to be meeting the people who supported this incredible, reckless, heartfelt man his whole life. 

“There is another reason these hills are wonderful.” Ezio breaks them both from their reverie and turns his horse to face the city. “They are the  _ best _ to ride through.” 

And with a signature smirk over his shoulder, Ezio spurs his horse to start into a gallop. As soon as she breaks into her stride, bright petals go flying in their wake. Sofia grins and follows suit, and they race down the Roman countryside through dancing petals, the sound of their laughter in the quiet morning rivaled only by the thrumming of hoofbeats.

The fields end a short distance from the western gates. Sofia reins her horse in as Ezio backtracks to meet her, petals in his hair and his sideways smirk fixed in place. He rides next to her as they trot to the gate.

“You have an eye for the fun things in life, Ezio Auditore,” she says, still breathless with laughter.

“I surely do.” The look in his eye is knowing, coy. “I will have to show you my other special places, as well.”

“I look forward to it. But for now, we have some special people to meet, no?”

He looks up to the gates of Rome, whose shadows fall over them now. It is chilly here, but Sofia does not move to put her hood up. Ezio doesn’t, either. “Yes,” he agrees. “We do.”

They ride together into Rome, where Ezio’s family awaits. They pick red petals from their clothes and exchange the knowing smiles of a young couple just returning from an adventure.


	6. florence

During the day, Ezio minds the children and the fields, and Sofia minds the shop.

This new life of his could not be more different from his prior career. Rather than concerning himself with assassination contracts and corruption, with the machinations of Templars and the movements of enemy troops, Ezio concerns himself with the crops. Sofia runs her bookshop in Florence, so Ezio is the only adult at home in the hours of high sun. 

Flavia, their eldest, trails around with him as he waters and weeds and tends. Marcello, their youngest, is too young to help in the fields, but he waddles after Flavia as she picks dandelions from their tiny flower garden and weaves them into crowns. More often than not, Flavia races home to Ezio’s calls with a wreath of flowers in her dark hair, dirt on her clothes, and a grin on her face. Marcello follows on her heels, delighted by the simple joy of wearing his sister’s crafts.

Some days, they head into town with Ezio’s old horse to visit their mother in her shop, or his sister when she is in the area for her business. The children grow up knowing Niccolò Machiavelli as their serious-faced uncle and Claudia as their teasing aunt. They will visit Rome and Venice when the children are older, and Ezio hopes to bring his and Sofia’s other friends into their family as well.

Considering his children are Auditores, they are not nearly as rebellious as Ezio had braced himself for. And he is eternally grateful for his family every day.

Peaceful as his life is, his past has never fully let him be. Niccolò had granted them this land, just a short ride from Florence's western gate. He had also made sure to tell Ezio that he still has enemies out there, and these enemies would be willing to harm innocents to get to him. Ezio never forgot, and Sofia learns quickly the weight of this warning. So Ezio hides weapons in his house, in places the children cannot reach. Sofia does not begrudge him the dagger under his pillow, nor the saber stashed next to the fireplace poker. And Machiavelli would never leave them defenseless; Ezio does not miss the hooded figures who sometimes ride by the estate and slow just enough to catch sight of him at his window.

Relics of his old life hang in his study, if not in the foyer of their home. His Auditore and Medici cloaks hang on either side of his favorite window, scavenged from the ruins of Monteriggioni and returned to him by some rebellious servant of Rodrigo Borgia. La Volpe’s sword is mounted above the mantle. A hidden blade (not his own, a parting gift pushed upon him by Claudia) is tucked into the drawer where he keeps his quills, and one of his mother’s diaries is kept in another, maintained by Sofia's careful touch. There is an old wanted poster with a crude rendition of his face that still makes him laugh. An old sketch of Leonardo's, framed on the desk. The sash of his father’s Assassin robes. The feather of an eagle, over 20 years old, snatched off a roof in Florence by an eager older brother.

But Ezio kept none of his trophies, nothing to remind him of his targets. No. Those people would stay in the earth, and stay out of his retirement.

Though no longer the Master Assassin in Rome, Ezio still finds himself answering correspondence. He answers requests for advice and fellowship from both new recruits and his veteran friends. And when he is not answering letters, tending the fields, raising his children, or spending time with Sofia, he attempts to write his own story — not the one that would be told in the brotherhood or passed to his children, but one for himself. To parse everything he had learned in his life. To process the trauma he had buried deep for the sake of progress. To recall what this had all been for, and how he had been lucky enough to end up back here in Tuscany. The words do not come easily to him, but he will not give up.

Sofia always returns from the bookshop before sunset. The children race to be the first to greet her at the door, and while Flavia is bigger and faster right now, she lets her brother win every now and then. Sofia kneels to hug them tight, then looks up to where Ezio leans in the doorway. In the low golden light, she meets his eyes and gives him that brilliant smile that always makes his heart turn over.

Oh, how he loves them. He hopes he can do right by them.

This warm night, Sofia puts the children to bed. Both have always insisted that their mother tells the best stories, and Ezio agrees. He slinks out into the night to allow her time alone with them and heads to their lonely stables. Bella, the old bay mare he had ridden most everywhere in Rome, flicks her ears at his presence. He gives her a fond pat and slips her a sugar cube pilfered from their kitchen store.

“At least one friend from Rome could come with me,” he murmurs to her. She blinks affectionately at him and gives a friendly wiggle of her head.

Ezio climbs effortlessly up two stories onto the roof of their home and sits cross-legged on a flat portion. He closes his eyes and listens to the soft murmur of Sofia’s story and the children’s delighted reactions. Around him are the sounds of summer, carried to him on a warm breeze. For a while, he allows his mind to drift, reveling in the peace of the evening.

“Ezio Auditore,” his wife’s voice calls from below, after quite some time, “what do you think you are doing?”

His guard had been down; even his eagle sense hadn’t picked her up. Sofia looks up at him from the ground with her hands on her hips. Her tone is scolding, but she cannot quite keep the smile off her face. Ezio grins and calls down, “Enjoying a fine night in Italy, mio amore.”

“You act like a man 20 years younger than you are,” she accuses. He shrugs.

“I have fallen off of roofs before, Sofia. I’ve not been broken yet. And you, of all people, know just how limber I am.”

Her cry of surprise makes him laugh, and Bella swishes her tail in annoyance at their loudness. “Ezio, I…”

“You need not say anything, Sofia.” He pulls himself to the edge of the roof and beams down at her. “Just come up here and slap me.”

She frowns, and looks dubiously at the walls directly beneath him. “If you think I can climb in these skirts…”

“You can with my help, if you would have me,” he tells her, amused. “Are you not the one always calling me a tomcat?”

The faux annoyance has slipped from her expression, and she looks at him thoughtfully. “I  _ would _ like to see things from a tomcat’s point of view,” she admits, and it is enough for Ezio. Easily, he slips from the roof and lands safely on the ground. While he is past the height of his ability, the muscle memory of long decades of climbing has not faded.

Patiently, he guides Sofia up the wall and points out the footholds and grips he had used to climb up. He goes on ahead to pull her up the last story, grateful that his work in the fields had kept his arms and shoulders so strong. They return to Ezio’s flat section of the roof and sit, her head resting on his shoulder, their faces to the stars.

“So beautiful,” she breathes. They can see the lights of Florence in the distance, and the speckled beacons of other villas in the countryside. “I can see why you like it up here.”

“I always felt more comfortable on the roofs,” he says quietly. “They were safer. Easier to see around the city from a bird’s view.”

“I thought you were a tomcat, messere?”

“I am  _ technically _ an eagle,” he shoots back. “But I have been called many other things. A dog, for instance.”

“A scamp,” she agrees. He gives her a sideways look through the corner of his eyes, and she laughs and kisses him. “You are many things, love. I have not forgotten.”

“How were the children?” he asks conversationally. She leans once again against his chest, indulging in his natural heat.

“ _ Ravenous _ . It seems they have inherited an appetite for adventure from us both.” Sofia’s voice is warm with affection. “Marcello is too little to fully understand, but he gasps when Flavia gasps and laughs when she laughs. They are quite the audience.”

“Well, they have quite the storyteller for a mother.”

“I try my best,” is her humble response, but she smiles anyway. “I am sure they will love to hear stories from you as well, dear husband.”

“Sì. I think about it often.” He pauses; does Sofia know just how much of his time is spent dwelling on his past? More quietly, Ezio continues, “I do not know what I will tell them when the time comes.”

She catches onto the shift in his mood quickly. Oh, she knows him so well. “Oh, I did not mean…” Sofia takes a deep breath to steady herself. “Ezio. Nothing will stop them from loving you. You know that.”

He nods absently. “My father’s stories sent me on a trip through the Mediterranean, away from Italy. It was worth every second, Sofia, because they led me to you. Of course I will tell them, but...I would not even know where to start.”

She rests her head back on his shoulder, and Ezio knows her thoughts are with the sleeping children in their beds beneath this roof. “You have time. They are so young.”

Ezio chuckles. “Old as I am, all I have is time.”

“Oh, don’t. You are not even 50 yet! You keep yourself healthier than most.” Sofia pulls away from him just far enough to press an accusing finger into his breastbone. Her expression softens after a moment, and she adds, “And yes, I, of all people, would know just how fit you are.”

His wife, always full of surprises. Rather than retort with a snarky comment, he grins, keeps his composure calm, and kisses the top of her head. “You certainly do,” he agrees, his thoughts already elsewhere. The mood shifts, and they are pensive once again.

She is right, of course. Ezio’s body has emerged remarkably whole from his terribly dangerous career — his old wounds ache more in storms, his hair is slowly graying, and he certainly cannot climb to the heights he once did. Yet he is still spry and strong in a way that many men his age are not. 

And Sofia...Sofia keeps his mind sharp, and not just with her books and stories. She makes him  _ better.  _ They had both come from solitary lives when they found each other, and the camaraderie had quickly become something more. He had brought a storm to her door, and she had faced it without fear. Ezio does not pretend he could have easily transitioned to a life away from his brotherhood without her. Sofia gives her patience and love and understanding unconditionally, but she still holds him accountable. They learn with each other. They grow together. And their love anchors him in the sweeping tides his past may bring, as well as the winds of change that wait in his future.

He falls more in love with her every day. As these thoughts come to him, so fully and suddenly he feels his heart may burst from his chest, he meets her eyes. Even in the low starlight he sees the intensity of her gaze. When he kisses her then, it is long and slow, the deep, knowing kiss of a loving partner.

“Oh, Ezio,” she breathes, once they part. He feels the flick of her eyelashes as she looks up to him.

“I am glad to spend my life with you, Sofia Sartor,” he murmurs, voice low and sultry. “I am even more glad that you would have me in yours.”

“There is nowhere else I would rather be.” Sofia makes sure to meet his eyes as she says, “You are more than a story, Ezio Auditore. You have created so much good in the world. You are  _ cherished. _ ”

His heart catches, and he swallows hard; she always knows just what to say. Wordlessly, he pulls her closer to him and she wraps her arms around his chest, holding him tight. They stay on the roof until the moon rises high above them and enjoy the peace they have earned together.


End file.
